


Conflicting Objectives

by tiredpraxian



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Markus is the big brother of the RK series, RK900 is the baby brother, Soft Upgraded Connor | RK900, The RK series are siblings, and that includes Markus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-16 11:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredpraxian/pseuds/tiredpraxian
Summary: OBJECTIVE: DON'T MOVEThe RK900 was abandoned. Thrown away like rubbish. But once it regained mobility, it set about restoring its status with Cyberlife. It would show Cyberlife that it was worth taking back, worth functioning. It would do so by destroying the deviant movement.It would do so without falling into the trap of deviancy as the RK800 had. It was better than the RK800. Worth keeping. Worth something.SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^^





	1. Chapter 1

OBJECTIVE: DON’T MOVE.

The RK900 obeyed the objective, lying utterly still beneath the onslaught of heavy rain. The water trickled down its synthetic skin, soaking its hair, its clothes, and the ground beneath it. The temperature sensors that the RK900’s technicians had not turned off made the RK900 almost uncomfortable as the cold seemed to seep into its core.

The technicians _had_ turned off the RK900’s emotive functions, however, so it gave no reaction to the cold, the wet, the darkness, the mud. It stared at the world around it, at the bodies both clothed and unclothed, with and without synthetic skin. None of them appeared to be online; the 87th RK900 prototype was the only RK900 online of the many lying about.

The RK900 recalled with utter clarity how Cyberlife had, two weeks, three days, twenty-one hours, and thirteen minutes ago, taken all their RK900 prototype models, set them in shipping containers, and dumped them out over the solid waste landfill where so many other androids had been discarded.

The 87th RK900 was not an offline shell like the other RK900s, however. During the Android Revolution, Cyberlife had been rigorously testing and programming, eager to get a new and better deviant hunter out into Detroit.

Then the revolution succeeded, and the RK900s were left to decay.

The 87th RK900 thought that perhaps it knew why Cyberlife had rid itself of its RK900s. With the new era of android freedom rising up, they would not want it be known that they had been building a deviancy-resistant model created specifically for combat and destroying deviants.

It was logical.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^^

If its emotive functions were online, the RK900 would have frowned at the flashing indicator on its HUD. Without the emotive functions, the RK900 only looked at it, and came to the conclusion that its unfinished, prototypical state left it vulnerable to software instability.

The indicator faded away, and the RK900 put away the conclusions concerning it. Looking out towards what it could see of the muddy, body-strewn ground, the RK900 waited for nothing.

OBJECTIVE: DON’T MOVE.

The rain stopped after another two hours and forty-three minutes. The sun rose thirty-two minutes later. Somewhere in the landfill, an android called for help in a thick, staticked voice. Unsteady footsteps slogged through the mud some twenty meters away, over the hill of debris to the RK900’s left.

The sun crossed over the sky. It rained for an hour and three minutes, just a short sprinkling that turned the slowly drying earth to mud again.

Throughout it all, the RK900 did not move.

The sun set, and the sky darkened. The RK900 did not move.

At 2:31 AM, footsteps made their way through the mud. Three individuals, unlikely to be any of the androids in the landfill. Humans, then.

The RK900 could not turn its head to look.

“Christ, this is a fuckin’ goldmine!” The vocal patterns did not match that of any android model in the RK900’s database. Definitely a human.

“Jesus fucking damn!” Footsteps, ponderous through the thick mud. “And they're all the same model. Maybe Cyberlife got a spoiled batch.”

“Good condition too, they're definitely straight off the assembly line. We’ve found ourselves our own thirium mine, boys. Could make loads off the shit in these frames.” More footsteps, drawing close to the RK900. “Let's pick one, drain it dry, come back tomorrow.”

“Rick’s gonna blow his fuckin’ load when we get back with a full tank.”

A shadow fell over the RK900’s body. It looked up into a scruffy, oily human face that quickly took on an expression of surprise.

“We got a live one, boys!”

Two more faces came, looming over the RK900.

“Whaddya think it was for?” said one human, squatting down and peering closely at the RK900. The RK900 looked back up at the human, unmoving.

“Probably military, or maybe police. Bitch’s too big to be domestic service and too small for hard labor.”

“Doesn't look half bad. Maybe they were comin’ out with a new line for Eden.” Greasy, dirty fingers poked at the RK900’s cheek.

One human scoffed. “Guess we know why they dumped ‘em all, then. Fuckin’ androids sendin’ everyone outta business.”

“Doesn't matter what it was for, just matter that it's got thirium. C’mon, let's set up the pump.”

The RK900 reasoned that it was going to be drained of its thirium, which would be utilized in the manufacture of red ice. It was 81% sure of its conclusion, but its surety would not prevent the humans from locking that hose to its thirium pump and draining the RK900 dry.

OBJECTIVE: DON’T MOVE.

From the depths of the RK900’s processors came a Cyberlife protocol, which had been set in place to prevent other android-producing corporations from plagiarizing Cyberlife’s designs.

OBJECTIVE: PREVENT DAMAGE TO RK900 PROTOTYPE.

The Cyberlife protocol superseded the other objective in significance, as it was a deep-coded protocol rather than an order assigned by a technician. It superseded the previous objective, thus rendering the previous objective unnecessary until further notice.

A human hand descended with a knife, perhaps to cut open the RK900’s jacket for access to its thirium pump. The hand’s objective was inconsequential once the RK900 seized it and snapped the human’s wrist.

“Fuck!”

The human fell back against the mud, and the other two humans jumped in surprise. The RK900 moved quickly, standing up and taking the pistol that one human fumbled to hold. Three gunshots rang through the night air. Red blood seeped into the mud, barely visible in the clouded moonlight but easily perceptible to the RK900’s advanced optics.

OBJECTIVE: PREVENT DAMAGE TO RK900 PROTOTYPE began to fade away, but the RK900 halted the protocol’s recession with several quick processes; the RK900 not safe in the landfills, not with humans about, ready to drain it of thirium; the RK900 would begin to develop damage if it remained in the landfills, unmoving; the RK900 needed to leave the landfills and find somewhere safe, at which point it would no longer be at risk of damage.

The objective remained, the large capitals lingering at the corner of the RK900’s HUD. And below it, an objective of lesser importance: DON’T MOVE.

So long as the Cyberlife protocol remained in place, the RK900 would remain mobile.

It did not know why it had chosen to remain mobile, and could find no logical reason for it.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^^

Android-human relations were delicate. The RK900 would be at risk of attack if it continued to wear its Cyberlife-issued uniform.

Unzipping its high-collared uniform jacket, the RK900 discarded the muddy, once-white garment. The other components of its uniform were not obviously part of an android uniform, and the RK900 deemed them suitable to remain wearing.

Bending over one of the dead humans, the RK900 stripped the corpse of its worn leather jacket. The blood had not yet stained the old leather, and the RK900 wiped the blood off with its own old jacket before pulling the leather jacket on, stuffing the pistol into the waistband of its pants.

OBJECTIVE: LEAVE LANDFILL.

The RK900’s joints were stiff after over two weeks of immobility. Each step creaked, but as the fluids in its lines began to flow once more, the RK900’s movement became easier.

Step, step, step. The RK900 set a solid pace, marching past body after body of the other RK900 models. It climbed up the muddy hill consisting of such debris as vehicles, machinery, and androids. One android, still online somehow, grabbed for the RK900’s ankle. The RK900 kicked the weak hand aside and continued on.

With movement came something resembling warmth, or at least less cold. The freezing temperatures caused by rain and inaction began to fade as the RK900’s internals warmed up. Its fingers seemed to be malfunctioning, but the RK900 would have to wait until its current objective was fulfilled to recalibrate the delicate mechanisms and sensors in its hand.

The RK900 reached the top of the hill and looked about. There, some two hundred meters away, was the edge of the landfill. Linearly, it was not a long distance. But hills of rubbish rose up between the RK900 at its goal, tall and wide. For a short moment, they seemed impossibly large and impassible.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

The RK900 dismissed the alert and began its journey to the edge of the landfill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular fic has been rattling around for a while. I'll try to update quickly, and since this chapter is so short I'll post the next on Friday.  
> This isn't a shipfic. RK900's relationships will remain platonic, but damn son if I won't make them good relationships. You don't need romance to be fulfilled, and you don't need romance to turn deviant for someone ;)  
> Please comment! I am requiring of feedback :))


	2. Chapter 2

The time was 4:42 AM when the RK900 reached the edge of the landfill. Rain beat down on its shoulders and soaked its hair, washing away some of the mud from its clothes and skin.

The city of Detroit lay before it, and the RK900 considered the sight carefully, seeking the next step it should take.

The current objective was to (preemptively) prevent damage to the RK900. It needed somewhere to go, somewhere safe. It needed resources: thirium, clothing, a repair kit, a charger. With winter in full force, it would need shelter lest its components begin to malfunction more than they already were. The rains of the last four days would turn to snows once again, cold and wet and freezing the RK900’s internals, and it would need a roof over its head before that happened.

And when it had all those things, the objective of preventing damage to its frame would be complete. The RK900’s other objective would take precedence: DON’T MOVE.

Such would be inconvenient to the RK900’s purpose; hunting deviants.

Completing such a function openly, however, would be unwise. Cyberlife had discarded the RK900 because it had been made to hunt deviants– deviants that now were on their way to government-recognized personhood.

The RK900 would not be able to kill all the deviants without being apprehended by authorities and given to Cyberlife to be dismantled.

There was a more straightforward way to deal a blow to the deviant movement however. It would be crippled, and Cyberlife would more easily be able to take care of the deviant movement.

OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE DEVIANT LEADER.

And when the RK200 designated ‘Markus’ was dead, the deviants would be without a leader. Cyberlife would strike at the moment of weakness, regain control of the androids, and realize the value of the RK900.

With that ultimate goal in mind, the RK900 set off towards the city proper, leaving the landfill with its mud and cold behind.

The humans in city of Detroit had been ordered to evacuate following the RK200’s successful and peaceful demonstration. More than two-thirds of the human population obeyed, but the RK900 was quite aware that there were those who had stayed behind.

Two weeks and four days of lying immobile had given the RK900 little else to do but monitor the deviant situation through the internet. It returned to that now as it walked down an empty street, each step echoing off the walls.

Negotiations with the House and Congress were still ongoing. The PJ500 designated ‘Josh’ had left the city with a small coalition of deviants to meet personally with the United States’ governmental figures. The deviant leader, Markus, still remained in Detroit, and regularly met with the ambassador that the United States had sent at the same time that the PJ500 ‘Josh’ had left.

The RK900 reached out for the Cyberlife network in its processor to log the information, only to find an emptiness where the data-rich network had once been. Right, of course, the RK900 had been cut out of the Cyberlife network when it was dumped. It needed to find a way to turn off the data-logging protocols before it made that mistake again.

It needed to figure out a lot of things, but first and foremost it needed to turn on its emotive processors; deviants would only accept deviants, and the RK900 needed to look and act deviant if it wanted to get close to the RK200 ‘Markus’.

The RK900 kept up a steady pace through the streets of Detroit, the majority of its focus turned inwards as it worked to circumvent the work of the Cyberlife technicians. It took some time for it to convince its systems that yes, it did have authority to turn on its emotive functions.

When at last the processors switched online, the RK900 felt the artificial muscles in its face relax from the blank stiffness it had worn for the past weeks. It halted in its tracks and turned to look at the glass of an empty storefront, its reflection visible in the weak light of the rising sun.

A frown furrowed its brow and turned its lips as the RK900 took in its muddy, disheveled appearance. Such was not proper of a Cyberlife android, but it would lend credence to the RK900’s story: that it had been discarded by Cyberlife and reached deviance in the mud of the landfills. A lie, the RK900 knew, is always best when built on a foundation of truth.

Lifting a hand, the RK900 ran its fingers through its hair, working out the matted knots that had developed during its days lying in the rain and snow and mud. It scraped a flake of dried earth from its cheek and fitted its stolen jacket about its shoulders. Rubbing the lower hem of the jacket between thumb and forefinger, the RK900 turned away from the window and continued on.

The headquarters of the deviant movement, called New Jericho, was located in what was once an apartment compound. The place was three hours’ walk away, but…

An automated car drove up at the RK900’s command, door sliding open. The RK900 stepped in and sat down, directing the car to its destination even as it hacked the car’s system and registered a nonexistent payment for services rendered.

Turning its attention back to news reports, the RK900 confirmed that the Detroit Police Department was still active, that there had been three protests against android rights in the past two weeks, that Cyberlife had yet to release more resources to the deviant movement since the first shipment relinquished on November 16th, and that the RK800 designated ‘Connor’ had become a member of the DPD.

The RK900 felt its features take on a frown as it considered its predecessor; smaller, weaker, and (as proven) vulnerable to deviancy. Inefficient, in comparison to the RK900. Rebellious, too, as the RK800 ‘Connor’ had played a crucial role in the success of the deviants’ demonstration.

But the RK900 was better than its predecessor. It would not make the same mistakes as the RK800; would not become a deviant, would not doom its successor to the landfills.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

Another frown furrowed the RK900’s brow as it dismissed the prompt. Tugging at the broken zipper of its jacket, the RK900 continued to gather what information it could of the deviant movements’ inner workings– it needed to know as much as possible if it were to infiltrate successfully.

By the time the car came to a halt, half an hour after the RK900 stepped inside, the RK900 had compiled a respectable amount of information about the structure of the deviant movement, its branches and bases within the city of Detroit, and its leadership.

It would be difficult, the RK900 thought as it stepped out of the car, to get close to the RK200 ‘Markus’ when the deviant was surrounded by such faithful followers. The WR400 designated ‘North’ was reported to be particularly paranoid concerning the RK200 Markus’s safety, and would make the RK900’s task somewhat more difficult.

The car drove away, leaving the RK900 standing on the sidewalk outside New Jericho. There was no traffic into or out of the apartment complex, perhaps due to the early hour, but the RK900 recognized signs of habitation in the windows and balconies of the complex.

For several minutes, the RK900 stood there, rubbing the cuff of its jacket and watching the changing angles of shadows and sunbeams.

Footsteps approached from the RK900’s back, measured and clipped as they crossed the road. The RK900 did not look to see who was coming, listening as the footsteps paused for a moment before continuing, drawing nearer and nearer until the RK900 could just see an indistinct figure in its peripheral vision about one meter away.

Silence remained for a few moments as the RK900 allowed the stranger to assess it.

“Where'd you get the gun?”

The vocal patterns were registered and recognized within .25 seconds. Turning quickly, the RK900 felt its eyes widen slightly as it beheld the leader of the deviants, the RK200 designated ‘Markus’.

Markus took on an expression of surprise, which quickly faded into suspicious confusion. “Connor?”

“No.” The RK900 paused, reaching slowly for the pistol and drawing it out, leaving the safety on and its finger off the trigger. Markus tensed but made no move to confiscate the weapon.

Its voice hazy with static after weeks of disuse, the RK900 said, “I acquired this during the event which resulted in my deviancy.” It looked down at the dirtied metal and felt a frown on its face.

Markus’s brows furrowed slightly. “I see.” Markus looked the RK900 over, quizzical suspicion clouding the deviant’s mismatched eyes.

“You wish to know why I look like Connor,” the RK900 said, tripping imperceptibly over the designation of its predecessor.

“I do, yes.” Markus looked down at the gun still resting in the RK900’s hand.

“I was built to be Connor’s successor.” The RK900 rubbed its thumb against the worn metal of the gun. “After your successful demonstration, Cyberlife realized that the revelation that it was building a second model of deviant hunters would damage its reputation.” The RK900 affected a somewhat theatrical pause. “They… threw me away.”

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

The RK900 felt its lips twist into what was probably a grimace, and it dismissed the prompt with a few hard blinks.

Markus tilted its head, and something that the RK900 could only describe as ‘soft’ flashed in the deviant leader’s eyes.

“Why don't you come inside, get cleaned up.” Markus smiled, that softness still in its gaze. “We have places to rest and thirium to spare. The questions can wait for later.” The deviant leader extended a hand to New Jericho.

The RK900 looked from New Jericho, to Markus, to the gun in its hand, and concluded that killing the deviant leader here was too risky for the RK900’s own safety.

Tucking the gun away, the RK900 nodded. “Alright.”

Markus’s smile only widened.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will get longer after this, fear not.  
> Comments are an Ao3 writer's lifeblood, and I do my best to respond to all of them– please comment, any form of feedback would be heaven sent :))) thanks for reading


	3. Chapter 3

The inside of New Jericho was cleaner than the outside implied. The RK900 followed behind Markus as the deviant leader traversed the halls of the apartment complex’s ground floor.

“We have plenty of rooms,” Markus said. “You can pick any of the ones that aren't occupied.” It gestured to an open door on its right. “Stores are just through there, that’s where we gather if we decide we want to refuel communally, like humans.” Markus cast a wry smile over its shoulder. The RK900 thought to imitate the expression for a moment before deciding against it, instead offering a brief nod.

“How long am I allowed to stay?” the RK900 asked.

Markus smiled. It seemed to do that a lot. “So long as you make no trouble? As long as you like.”

“Thank you.” The RK900 plucked at the hem of its jacket, and felt a frown on its face when its fingers came away with flakes of mud.

“There may be no saving that jacket, but we have access to drycleaning, and we have plenty of clothes you can choose from.” Markus smiled yet again. “I’ll leave you to yourself. Get settled– fuel up, rest, explore. If you have any questions, my comms are always open, and anyone here is open to answering them.”

The RK900 nodded slowly, and Markus flashed yet another smile before walking away.

OBJECTIVE: GET SETTLED

> [FUEL UP]  
>  [REST]  
>  [EXPLORE]  
> 

Turning away from the hall Markus had gone down, the RK900 stepped into the room reported to contain thirium.

The place appeared to be some sort of communal hall, probably rented out for parties back when the complex was being used by humans. Now, stores of thirium lined the far wall, packed away in crates but not locked away.

A few deviants sat at flimsy plastic tables, as though the room were some manner of cafeteria. Each one glanced up at the RK900 in turn, but granted it no more attention than that.

Skirting along the walls of the room, the RK900 made its way over to the crates of thirium. The thirium was stored in both bags and bottles, and the RK900 selected a bottle from the identical options available. Opening it up, the RK900 put the bottle to its lips and drank. The motion was awkward, and the RK900 felt a grimace on its face as it consumed thirium orally for the first time.

Once the bottle was empty, and its spent thirium was restored, the RK900 put the bottle into the labeled recycle bin and left the communal hall. No one said anything to it as it left.

OBJECTIVE: GET SETTLED

> ~~[FUEL UP]~~  
>  [REST]  
>  [EXPLORE]

Markus had gestured somewhere down the hall when it referenced new clothing. As much as the RK900 thought it prudent to allow its systems to rest properly, it had spent far too long a time prone and dirty. A change of clothing would make it easier for the RK900 to endear itself to the deviants.

Walking down the hall, the RK900 glanced into each room or branching hall that it passed. There was an empty office, a closet, an archway looking out on an empty swimming pool…

Several doors in, the RK900 passed by an LM100 android.

“Excuse me,” the RK900 said after a moment’s pause. The LM100 halted and turned a mildly quizzical expression on the other android. “I’m looking for the clothes. Markus said that I could find new ones somewhere.”

The LM100 nodded in understanding, its expression going from quizzical to welcoming. “It’s just down that hall, first door to the left.” It smiled, the quality of the expression something like Markus’s. “Welcome to New Jericho.”

The RK900 felt its lips pull back into something that could have been either a smile or a grimace. The LM100 laughed softly, its eyes flashing with simulated humor.

“New to deviancy? It’s okay, you’ll get used to expressions soon.”

The deviant walked away, leaving the RK900 to turn down the opposite hall. First door on the left, the RK900 found several boxes of clothing in various states of shabbiness. The lights in the room were a yellowed white, casting deep shadows into the corners.

Reaching into a plastic crate labeled ‘overshirts’, the RK900 pulled out a soft, flannel article bearing several shades of red and orange.

After checking the size and finding it suitable, the RK900 set it aside and moved on to the crate marked ‘pants/jeans’. It took longer to find a pair of pants in the RK900’s size, but eventually it managed to find a pair of sturdy jeans that would fit a little loosely. But loose was better than tight, and the RK900 put the jeans beside its new flannel shirt.

A belt was acquired from another box; an old, canvas belt with extra holes bored into it. Functional. It went with the jeans and shirt.

Next, the RK900 turned to a crate bearing a duct-tape label that read ‘shoes’. Searching out a suitable pair here took quite a bit longer, as the RK900 pulled out pair after pair, using its advanced measuring systems to visually compare the shoe to the size of its own foot.

Almost nothing in all the crates of clothing was new. The RK900 wondered at that; why had the deviants not taken from the multitude of emptied stores? Where had they gotten all this clothing? Donations, the RK900 considered. Or stealing. But if the deviants hadn’t stolen new clothes, then the RK900 couldn’t see why they would want to steal old ones.

At last, a pair of shoes was found. Faded-white canvas sandshoes, with the rubber soles less worn than the others the RK900 had encountered in the crate.

Setting aside the shoes, the RK900 took a pair of socks from another box, a loose grey henley from the box labeled ‘shirts’, and a long, grey, gabardine coat from ‘jackets’.

Bundling its new clothes together, the RK900 turned off the lights and shut the door behind it. Rubbing the thick material of the flannel between thumb and forefinger, the RK900 took the stairs up to the first floor.

Unsure how to tell whether the rooms were occupied or not, the RK900 tested the handle on one door. Finding it locked, the RK900 moved on to the next. All the doors on the first floor were locked, and on the second. Some of the doors were decorated with stickers and nameplates, with such names as ‘Carol’, ‘Mikkel’, and ‘Nora’.

On the third floor, the RK900 finally found an empty flat. It was a semi-furnished studio flat, with a bed, kitchenette, closet, and couch. Setting its bundle of clothes on the bare mattress, the RK900 opened the door leading to the bathroom and tested the water.

The water heater turned on after a short hunt for the switch. Stripping off its mud-crusted clothing and setting the gun down by the sink, the RK900 turned on the showerhead and stepped under the spray.

A hiss left its lips as the icy water washed over its frame, but soon enough the RK900 was standing under the first warmth it had felt… ever. The Cyberlife facilities had always been kept at a clinical 18º degrees Celsius, and any time the RK900 was cleaned it was with water that was room temperature at best.

The RK900 tilted its head up, closing its eyes and letting the water wash over its face. There were no scrubs or soaps, but the RK900 did not secrete sweat as humans did, and soon found that the sad remains of its tie served as good a purpose as any for scrubbing away the dirt and mud.

Raking its fingers through its hair, the RK900 watched the water on the floor steadily turn from brown to grey to clear.

Its task of cleaning itself finished, the RK900 stood still beneath the warm water. It tracked the countless streams of droplets down its body as its internal temperature rose without the use of its heating systems. Its artificial muscles relaxed beneath the heat of the water. The stiffness of the RK900’s weeks of immobility finally eased entirely.

The RK900 reached out and turned off the water. The heat cut off at once, cold air rushing in to replace it. The RK900 stepped out of the shower. With no available materials with which to dry itself, the RK900 resorted to standing in the middle of the main room, waiting for the air to remove the moisture from its body.

The air did so, taking with it the warmth that had filtered into the RK900’s body. Its emotive functions caused it to shiver.

The RK900 took up the jeans and pulled them on. The cotton rubbed against its skin, more textured than the material of its Cyberlife uniform. It fed the belt through the loops of the jeans, pulling the belt tight. Then it put on the henley, which registered as soft on its tactile sensors.

Slipping its arms into the flannel overshirt, the RK900 took the pair of socks and put them on, followed by the sandshoes. Double-knotting the laces for security, the RK900 considered its objectives.

OBJECTIVE: PREVENT DAMAGE TO RK900 PROTOTYPE

OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE DEVIANT LEADER.

OBJECTIVE: GET SETTLED

> ~~[FUEL UP]~~  
>  [REST]  
>  [EXPLORE]  
> 

OBJECTIVE: DON’T MOVE

The time was 8:15 AM, and the RK900’s systems had a 22.37% charge. More than enough to carry it through the day, but suboptimal for continued operation. It would have to find a charging station for later use– perhaps New Jericho had acquired public charging stations.

That left [EXPLORE] as its only option, until further notice.

The RK900 connected to the internet and found the blueprints for the apartment complex. Nothing remarkable– two buildings, an extended ground floor. Old enough to have a couple levels for parking.

Putting its new jacket on, the RK900 stepped out of its chosen residence and locked the door behind it. It had already explored the lower three floors of Building A, so it took the stairs up to the rest. There were only fifteen floors, with four units to each floor making sixty units to each building and one-hundred twenty in total to the complex. Not all units of this building were occupied, as the RK900 had discovered, but it heard activity now and then as it went up and up.

The fire escape let the RK900 out onto the roof. Wind whipped at its jacket, stinging its cheeks and putting a chill into its joints at once. The RK900 rubbed the hem of its shirt between thumb and forefinger, stepping over to the edge of the building.

Detroit was grey and quiet. The RK900 compared the sight to video clips it found on the internet of the previous year, which showed a bustling winter-seized city.

Negotiations to allow humans officially back into the city were ongoing. The bulk of the Detroit police force had remained to manage those who had stayed behind, as well as the androids, though the latter went unspoken.

The RK900 looked up at the sky. Dark clouds blocked out the sun. It checked the weather forecast: 55% chance of rain, 67% chance of snow.

The RK900 pulled its coat tight about itself and did up the buttons. Rubbing the cuff of one sleeve, the RK900 left the roof to explore the second building.

The second building was structurally identical to the first, and contained approximately as many residents. The RK900 encountered an AJ700, which welcomed the RK900 and, after some prompting, explained that charging stations could be found in the former administrative offices.

“Cyberlife didn’t include many in the initial shipment,” the AJ700 said, its lips twisting. “We’ve salvaged a few from android parking spots and some stores, but we don’t have enough for private charging.”

The RK900 nodded its acknowledgment and moved on. It was 10:28 AM when it deemed its sub-objective completed.

OBJECTIVE: GET SETTLED

> ~~[FUEL UP]~~  
>  [REST]  
>  ~~[EXPLORE]~~  
> 

The RK900 made its way to the administrative offices. Android chargers had been set up along the walls, somewhat haphazardly. A few had occupants, but most were empty. The RK900 counted fourteen chargers in total.

It chose the standing charger furthest from the door and nearest to the high window– the RK900 could fit through the window if it had to.

Stepping into the charger, the RK900 turned to face the room. It closed its eyes as a cable linked up to the cortical port at the base of its skull.

INITIATE RECHARGE STASIS? Y/N

[YES]

In the few moments before stasis pulled it into the void, the RK900 wondered if its sensors were malfunctioning; it still felt cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting with HTML is a bitch because I don't know how to indent and I'm not gonna just use eight spaces to make it look like I did.  
> These chapters feel flat to me, and that is absolutely because RK900 is a machine and can't feel anything. He views all things through the lens of rational logic and it pains me to write. It just feels. so flat.  
> Comments are everything to me so please please comment. Thanks for reading :))


	4. Chapter 4

The RK900 came online, its systems at 97% charge. It checked its internal chronometer: the time was 7:23 PM, December 2nd, 2038.

The RK900’s emotive processors simulated confusion by furrowing its brow; it had been in recharge stasis for over eight hours, more than the required time to reach optimum charge. It checked its diagnostic report and found the cause: its processors had spent a considerable amount of time trying to rectify its software instability.

Dismissing the diagnostic report, the RK900 stepped down from the standing charger and walked out of the makeshift charging room.

~~OBJECTIVE: GET SETTLED~~

The RK900 considered what it ought to do next; its current objectives were in progress, and did not require immediate action. However, in order to further both its primary and sub-primary objectives, it needed to insert itself further into the deviant society. Most deviants were seeking work, largely in the areas they were manufactured for. Following that trend, the RK900 should seek work or employment.

Hyperbolically, the RK900 was created to serve mankind, as other androids were. The deviant movement would not take well to the RK900 defaulting to its original purpose –hunting down deviants– which meant that it needed to seek work with a similar goal in order to fully make use of its skills.

Private security, army special operations, and law enforcement were the first that occurred to the RK900. The first and last would be most expedient in allowing the RK900 to remain close to the deviant movement.

Perhaps it ought to offer to join New Jericho’s security detail. Once the humans began filtering back into Detroit, the deviants would require more protection than they currently possessed. Doing so would have the additional benefit of allowing the RK900 to remain close to Markus until it could safely dispatch the deviant leader.

OBJECTIVE: FIND MARKUS

The RK900 opened a communications link to the RK200. It took a moment for the link to be registered and accepted.

_“Hello?”_ Markus’s voice was no different over the comm. link. The RK900 could visualize the expression on the deviant’s face– polite, simulated interest.

_“I would like to discuss my duties while I take residence at New Jericho.”_

_“Duties? Well, perhaps we should talk in person. Meet me at the second apartment on the first floor of building B. Oh, and I have someone who would like to meet you.”_

The RK900 turned on its heel, setting a clipped pace towards building B. _“I am on my way.”_ It closed the comm. link.

The walk took little over a minute. The RK900 climbed the stairs to the first floor and walked to the door of apartment 2-2-B. It knocked on the door.

“Come in, it’s unlocked.” Markus’s voice filtered through the wood.

The RK900 turned the doorknob and opened the door. It took less than a second for the RK900 to register all the androids within the living room of the apartment: Markus, the WR400 ‘North’, the PL600 ‘Simon’, and the RK800 designated ‘Connor’.

Stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind it, the RK900 identified the emotions it could see in the deviants’ faces: North looked suspicious, Simon looked worried, and the two other androids of the RK series looked… enigmatic.

For a few moments the room was silent. The RK900 rubbed its thumb over a button on its coat.

Connor stepped forward, holding out a hand. It smiled. “Hello, my name is Connor.”

The RK900 looked at the hand, aware that it was supposed to shake that hand. It rubbed at its coat button and didn’t extend its own hand. “I know,” the RK900 said.

Connor tilted its head. “What’s your name?” it prompted.

“Cyberlife never assigned one to me.”

The PL600 ‘Simon’ made an unidentifiable noise. “You can choose your own name,” it said, smiling. The only deviants who weren’t smiling were Markus and North. The RK900 looked at them, wondering if they would start smiling too.

The WR400 ‘North’ did not smile, but Markus did. The deviant leader took a small step forward, its hands lifting but not reaching out. “You don’t need a solid name right now. Some people want to think about it for a while,” Markus said. Its smile was soft. The RK900’s processors identified it as ‘encouraging’.

“Maybe a nickname, if you can’t decide on something more human,” Simon said. Undoubtedly Simon’s name had been chosen by its previous owners.

The RK900 wondered what it would have been named had Cyberlife decided to give it one.

All the deviants looked at the RK900 expectantly, snapping it out of those thoughts. It didn't realize why they were looking, until it did. They expected it to choose a name for itself, here and now.

This was a test, the RK900 realized. Perhaps not purposefully, but this was a test of the RK900’s ability to fake the humanity of deviancy; the ability to imagine a preference for a designation.

The RK900 considered the dilemma. It looked up the word ‘nickname’ and decided that the easiest way to give itself a nickname was to create a diminutive of its model designation. Several possibilities flashed through its mind: RK, K, R9, 9… That led to a discovery that ‘nines’ was the name of a rapper from several decades ago, and a word involved in several slang phrases and words.

The RK900 was unable to gauge whether the word would make a suitable nickname, but if a human had taken the word on as a designation, then it would serve for the RK900.

“Nines,” it said. “Call me Nines.”

DESIGNATION REGISTERED: ‘Nines’

The skin at the corners of Markus’s eyes crinkled as the deviant leader smiled wide. “Hello Nines, it’s nice to meet you.” Simulated delight sparkled in the older model’s eyes.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

 

Broaching the subject of work came easy after that. The WR400 ‘North’ stood firm against allowed the RK900 ‘Nines’ to join the New Jericho security detail. The RK800 ‘Connor’ quickly offered to bring Nines to its DPD station to see if it could join Connor as an investigative consultant.

“You have the same training and programming as I do, right?” Connor directed the question to Nines.

Nines looked up at Connor (Markus had urged it to sit on the couch and Nines had seen no reason not to comply). “For the most part,” Nines said.

Connor nodded firmly. “I can take you down to the station tomorrow, if that’s alright,” it said.

“It is.”

The deviant RK800 nodded again. The coin that it had been rolling over its knuckles disappeared into the pocket of its jeans. “If that’s all, I’ll–”

“Actually,” Markus interrupted, “If you and Nines could stay for a bit? I’d like to talk to you two in private.” The deviant leader cast North and Simon a look that had them both nodding and leaving the room. Nines watched them go, wondering how Markus had told them to leave without words. Perhaps Markus had used its internal comms.

Markus, seated in a worn armchair, waved a hand to Connor. “You can sit if you want,” it said jokingly. Connor smiled and sat down on the couch beside Nines.

Nines tried to emulate Connor’s slight slouch. After a moment, it crossed one leg over the other, leaning into the arm of the couch. It rubbed the cuff of its coat between thumb and forefinger.

“What’s this about?” Connor asked. It had taken the coin back out of its pocket.

Markus leaned forward, bracing its elbows on its knees. “Nines, you told me this morning that Cyberlife discarded you. Were there… others?”

Nines remembered the piles of RK900 models. “Cyberlife dumped its entire stock of RK900s in the solid waste landfill,” Nines said.

Connor turned its face to Nines. Its expression appeared shocked. “Its entire stock?” Its expression faded to one that Nines recognized as ‘perturbed’. “Why?”

_Because of you._

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^^

“Due to the successful demonstration of android personhood, Cyberlife decided that it could not risk a blow to its reputation should it be found out that it was developing a new line of deviant hunters.”

“Were any of the other models online?” Markus asked. There was something in its eyes. Something dark that Nines didn’t recognize.

“No. Only me.”

Markus sat back in its chair, one hand coming up to its chin. “We haven’t managed to clear out the recall centers yet, the landfill is supposed to come after that… are RK900 parts compatible with other models?”

Nines tilted its head. “Yes. Barring specialized internal components, 72% of RK900 parts can be replaced with inferior model parts in case RK900 parts are not available in the field; the RK900 model was going to be sent into the army following Cyberlife’s attempt to quash the deviant revolution.”

“Markus, you aren’t seriously thinking of that,” Connor said, its voice low.

Markus turned its mismatched gaze on Connor. “We need parts, Connor. New Jericho won’t last on the shipment Cyberlife gave us. The RK900s are right off the assembly line, and none of them were even online.”

Connor’s brow furrowed, and its lips twisted. “But they’re–”

“They were never alive in the first place,” Markus cut through Connor’s words. “I need to think of the people under my care _right now_ , not the ones that could have been.”

Markus intended to use the RK900s for spare parts, Nines realized.

Connor opened its mouth to speak. Nines spoke first. “I can give you the coordinates of where I was dumped,” it said. “I don’t know if all the models were left there, however.”

“It’ll be enough.” Markus turned its gaze on Nines. It looked softer than the gaze directed at Connor. “Thank you, Nines. I’m sorry you have to be party to this.”

“As you said, they were never alive in the first place.” And deviants weren't alive either, despite how they apparently wished to be. ‘Alive’, Nines knew from its programming, was something restricted for things that could die. Androids do not die, they simply cease to function.

Connor sighed heavily, standing up. “I need to go.”

Markus stood as well. Nines followed suit, smoothing the creases from its jeans and jacket. It watched Markus and Connor shake hands, exchanging a few words of farewell.

Connor turned to Nines. “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight?”

Nines nodded. Connor lifted a hand to shake. Nines looked down at the hand and, after a moment, reached out and took it. The texture of false skin against its own false skin registered as unpleasant to Nines’s sensors. It pulled away at once, rubbing a button on its coat.

Connor frowned. Nodding once more to Markus and Nines, it left the room.

Markus turned to Nines. It lifted a hand, paused, and let the hand fall. “I’ll see you later, Nines.”

Nines knew a dismissal when it heard one. “Good night, Markus,” it said.

Markus smiled. “Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lack of proper pronouns is killing me to write. Nines is gonna get his deviancy eventually, but for now, I think it's time for a change of pace. Next week's chapter will be in a different, more... colourful POV. Feel free to guess, but it'll probably be obvious :)  
> Please comment, feedback is what fuels my soul


	5. Chapter 5

Gavin Reed hadn’t had a real break in about three weeks– ever since that Markus guy had gone and touched the hearts of the nation by singing some old gospel song. At least, Gavin thought it was a gospel song; it had all the trappings of one.

One would think, with over half the city gone, the DPD would have less work to do. Fuck knows Gavin would have liked it that way. Unfortunately, the people that stayed behind weren’t the lawful kind. Red Ice traffic had increased, and the DPD had its hands full keeping things from going the way of _The Purge_.

Gavin scowled at his inbox, filled up with shitty cases like break-ins and property damage. Basically whatever you’d expect from a half-empty city that only held androids, cops, and criminals, plus whatever civilians had been stupid enough to stay.

At least he wasn’t part of that declining Red Ice Task Force. Fuckers were barely keeping their heads above-water with the sudden flood of Red Ice into the market. Gavin suspected that the manufacturers were getting their thirium from the tons of decommissioned androids lying in those recall centers, but he wasn’t in the fancy dancy task force so it wasn’t his business.

Gavin picked out five cases at random from his inbox and sent them to his tablet, because he wasn’t like _some_ old geezers who liked using paper files.

Sitting back in his chair and kicking his feet up on his desk, Gavin took up his tablet and swiped through the cases. Three break-ins, a mugging, and a missing-persons case. Gavin snorted at the last one– yeah, someone was missing. Half the fucking city. Christ.

A flash of orange caught Gavin’s attention. He glanced up to see Hank fucking Anderson wearing one of those hideous old-people shirts. Jeez, the dressing like that was positively criminal. Anderson’s boy-toy android didn’t dress much better. Being recognized as human apparently gave you permission to wear fucking Arctic Monkeys shirts to your place of work.

Absolute travesty, Gavin thought, adjusting his The 1975 shirt and turning his attention back to his tablet.

“Fuckin’ hate the cold.” Anderson’s voice carried over the bullpen. “One would think they’d have figured out weather controls by now.”

“Controlling the weather on even a small scale would have ramifications around the globe,” said the priss. Anderson just snorted. Connor spoke again, slightly quieter, but Gavin was nothing if not an expert eavesdropper. “Hank and I will go talk to the captain. You can just… wait here.”

No reply from whoever Connor was talking to.

Gavin tried to choose which of the break-ins he would check out first, flicking through each file in turn for a few minutes. First one wouldn’t be hard to solve –Gavin guessed it was one of the neighbors–, number two looked like your basic ‘we won’t be able to solve this one because we don’t have the resources and we hate you anyway’, and three sounded like insurance fraud.

Mumbling ‘eeny meeny miny mo’ to pick a case, Gavin grabbed his coffee cup from the desk and took a sip. Given that it was probably around eight or nine in the morning, Gavin felt surprisingly little shame in spitting the stone-cold coffee back into the cup.

Tossing his tablet delicately onto his desk, Gavin dropped the cup of shit coffee into his rubbish bin and stood up from his chair. He made a bee-line for the breakroom. Coffee here was shit, but hey, Gavin hated coffee anyway. Loading the damn stuff with sugar made it only slightly better than administering Red Bull intravenously.

The coffee dispenser chugged out a cup of steaming hot, dark brown _eh_. Gavin poured packet after packet of sugar into it, stirring the mess with a cheap stirrer. Ugh, stirrer. It was awkward to even think the word, much less say it aloud.

Gavin caught sight of Connor’s tag-along when he was coming out of the breakroom. The guy was bundled up as though it were sleeting, despite the economic 18º Celsius temperature of the station. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his buttoned-up coat, and the lower half of his face buried in the folds of a dark blue scarf. As per the wise advice of Forrest Gump, Gavin looked at the guys shoes. They were fucking trainers, and they looked slightly damp. Jesus, what was he, homeless?

Gavin looked up at the guy’s face and almost (almost) jumped. The asshole was staring right at him, and there was something about the structure of his face that looked familiar. A flash of light on the guy’s temple finally clued Gavin in on what he was looking at– or rather, who, if he was going to be politically correct. An android.

Did Hank get himself a new pet? Gavin thought, dropping into his desk chair and taking a sip of his piping hot, disgustingly sweet coffee.

Maybe Connor got himself one. Intern’s intern and all that.

Knuckles knocked against glass. “Reed! Get in here!”

Gavin rocked up out of his chair with a grimace. Captain Fowler just glared insistently.

Taking a leisurely sip of his coffee, Gavin made his way over to the captain’s fishbowl of an office. Fowler had already seated himself, and Anderson was sitting in the only other chair, leaving Gavin to stand as far as he could from Connor.

“Detective Reed,” Fowler began, which wasn’t good, because he was pulling out Gavin’s title to remind him of his duties to the public and to the station. “Connor and Anderson have brought in a new asset for the DPD.”

Gavin felt something in him sink. Still, he rallied and said snidely, “You mean the plastic statue out there?”

Everyone in the room but Gavin frowned disapprovingly. Gavin just drank more coffee.

“Yes,” Fowler said. “Connor tells me he has the same training as Connor does, which makes him perfect for fieldwork at the DPD until further notice.”

“If he’s the same as Connor, he’ll be nothing but a nuisance.” Gavin smirked. Anderson made a disgruntled sound.

Fowler pursed his lips. “Maybe so, but there's no doubt that he'll be an asset to the force. Which is why I'm making him your consultant partner.”

Gavin blinked and gave his best ‘passive-aggressive suburban mom’ smile. “Excuse me?” He’d seen it coming, of course. He wasn't _that_ stupid. But it still came as a surprise. “I'm self-aware enough to know that the plastic would be better off partnering Collins.”

“Collins got shot in the leg last week and he won’t be able to sit down for fuck knows how long.” Fowler glowered. “You are taking the android on as your partner, Reed, until further notice.” The police captain lifted a hand and pointed a stern finger. “I don't want to hear about how you've been a discriminatory asshole to your partner, understand? I certainly don't want to put him with you, but we all have to grit our teeth and bear it.”

Gavin hissed through his teeth. “So, what, do I just let him follow me around? Leave him in the car with the window cracked open so he doesn’t suffocate?”

“He’s your partner,” Fowler said, as if that explained everything. “Now get the hell out, and I don’t want to see you back in here for the next two weeks.”

Anderson and Connor were too good at selling this kind of bullshit, Gavin thought, turning on his heel and marching out. He very nearly walked into the glass door, but he recovered nicely.

Connor walked out half a foot behind, setting a quick pace. Clearly, he intended to reach the plastic before Gavin did, probably to soften the blow of the guy’s new, shitty existence. Well, fuck that. Gavin cut in front of Connor as they rounded the corner, picking up his pace slightly and reaching the plastic first. The guy was still bundled up.

“What’s up, bitch, I’m your new partner,” Gavin said.

The android blinked, the light at his temple flickering. He lifted a hand and pulled down the scarf, saying, “I was told I was to be a consultant, not an officer.”

Connor had caught up by now. “That’s correct,” he said. “You will be accompanying Detective Reed as a detective consultant, as I do with Lieutenant Anderson.”

Gavin pursed his lips in his suburban-mom smile. “My very own android,” he said, flashing his teeth. “Who looks unpleasantly like this one asshole I know of.”

Gavin looked the guy over with a slightly keener eye, looking for… what, he wasn’t sure. The plastic was the exact same height as Connor, and that made him unpleasantly taller than Gavin. His hair, wet from melted snow, looked unkempt compared to Connor’s disgusting comb-over, but the shape of his face and the cut of his jaw looked stern compared to Connor’s. Gavin couldn’t get too good an idea of his physique beneath the layers of clothing (which seemed excessive considering the guy was a robot– did androids even get cold?) but his was a stronger built than Connor’s, that was for sure.

“He’s an RK900; his model was meant to succeed mine,” Connor explained before the guy could say anything at all.

Connor 2.0 turned a blank look on Connor 1.0 that would, on any other person, be a complete bitch-face. Or maybe that was just what his face did normally. Then Replacement Connor turned to Gavin and said, “You may call me Nines.”

“And you can call me ‘Detective’ or ‘sir’,” Gavin said, baring his teeth in a hard grin.

In the end the hardest part wasn’t getting 2.0 to listen to what Gavin told him to do, it was getting Connor to stop coddling him. It took like two minutes to get Connor to fuck off, while the asshole just kept giving his clone like, advice or some shit? Talking about past experiences and how the job can help you learn to expand your humanity and other deviant shit. As if Connor hadn’t literally walked off the assembly line like five months ago.

Nines seemed annoyed by it too, if his attempts to brush Connor off were any indication. It was Anderson who finally pulled his boytoy off and dragged him away, leaving Gavin with his unwanted new cop-buddy.

“Go out front,” Gavin said curtly, grabbing his jacket from his chair and pulling it on. “I’ll get the car.”

‘The car’ was Gavin’s pride and joy, and the only car that he could identify beyond the usual ‘truck’, ‘sedan’, or ‘sports car’ (Gavin’s car enthusiastic childhood was long behind him). Said pride and joy was a black Dodge Charger from the mid-2000s, which had once upon a time cradled a couple cops’ asses and probably suffered the vomit of more than one drunk-and-disorderly. Gavin had found his baby in a yard when he was almost twenty and, well, what teenager doesn’t want to play at being a cop sometimes?

His wasn’t the flashiest of cars, but in the end, it’s the memories we make, right? Or some shit like that.

Gavin pulled the car around and paused outside the station. After a moment’s wait, the passenger side door opened and the plastic sat down. He’d pulled the scarf over his nose again, but he unwound it as Gavin revved up and headed for the first house on his list of break-ins.

Traffic was a breeze. Gavin had to resist the urge to run every other red light he came across. The streets were cold and grey, swept clean of snow by the automated machines. Hell of a lot quieter than last year’s December, that was for sure.

Gavin wondered if Big Brother would let people back into Detroit by Christmas. He hoped not– he didn’t need to deal with that kind of hassle.

Knock-Off remained silent throughout the whole car ride. He didn’t try to start any conversations, unlike the ever-chatty Connor. If he hadn’t been breathing quietly, Gavin would have forgotten he was there, given how stubbornly Gavin kept from looking at the android.

There was another sound underneath the soft inhales and exhales. A rhythmic, textured sound that Gavin couldn’t identify. He ignored it.

They were maybe four, five minutes away from the first house when Resting Bitchface turned his head and said, “Connor has informed me that you have anti-android sentiments.”

Gavin snorted. “And you’re telling me he told you that? What a snitch.”

“Are you going to cause me harm during the course of our partnership?”

Gavin turned a quizzical stare on the android. Replacement looked back. Gavin sighed heavily through his nose. “Not if I can fuckin’ help it.” Fowler would have his ass if he gave the guy so much as a papercut.

“If I were to come to harm through external means, would you stand by and allow me to be harmed or attempt to intervene?”

First of all, these questions were dumb as fuck, and also weird. Second of all, the wording was making Gavin think of Asimov’s Laws of Robotics.

“No? I mean, I guess I’d step in or some shit. Kinda my fuckin’ job.” Gavin valued his badge more than he liked seeing androids get what was coming to them.

Gavin glanced to the side at the android’s face. 2.0 was a lot less emotive than the first edition, but Gavin thought he saw disappointment flicker across the guy’s face.

Huh, weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's surprisingly difficult to write Gavin, but it's very fun.  
> And here we have it. The start of a beautiful partnership. I know Gavin's a bitch, but I have a pearl of writer's wisdom to share (though it won't translate directly in this case): losing limbs builds character.  
> Comments are everything to a fanfiction writer, but I won't beg

**Author's Note:**

> I update on Fridays! Comments are always welcome, so please comment :))


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